


The Lost Duke

by orphan_account



Category: Anastasia (1997), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anastasia AU, Family, Friendship/Love, Kidlock, Protective Mycroft, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlock/Anastasia crossover where Sherlock is the youngest son of the Emperor of Nodol betrayed and cursed by a banished holy man, once trusted as a confidante. When a rebellious siege descends upon the palace, Grand Duke Mycroft Holmes looses sight of his younger brother, and believes him captured and killed. Devastated, yet hopeful, Mycroft offers a reward to anyone who brings proof of Sherlock's whereabouts. One ex-servant and one ex-royal guard scheme together to con the Emperor with a Duke look-a-like in order to gain the reward, and are delighted to happen upon a desperate young orphan looking to escape to France and in need of an exit visa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Curse

The court swirled and waltzed in sparkling color across the golden dance floor of the palace ballroom. Above the twirling skirts and glittering jewels sat a contented Mycroft Holmes, Grand Duke of Nodol, first born son of Siger the Great. He was an immensely proud young man, fine and cultured like all Nodol royalty should be, dressed immaculately in a white suit at the celebration of the kingdom’s centennial. He observed the festivities with a delighted air; everything had been perfectly arranged. The music was the finest in the land, the food exotic and gloriously prepared, the men and women of court handsomely dressed and shimmering with wealth. Nodol was a jewel of the known world, and the Holmes dynasty ruled it with excellence, intelligence and great power. Of course there was a shadow that strained behind the façade of greatness. Rumors of discontent, of a rebellion stirring in the South plagued his father the Emperor, making him wary and paranoid. Just as soon as he took on confidants, the Emperor seemed to banish them from his sight, determined to remain powerful, but unsure of his ability to rule.

 _When I am Emperor,_ Mycroft thought, _I shall never let such a fear overcome my reason. Nodol shall excel still more under the monarchy._

Below he saw his fair mother and striking father begin another waltz, joined by the enthusiastic members of the court. His sister danced with a young prince from France, her eyes glittering with amusement as she giggled at something the prince had said. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sheridan had just been débuted into society, but she already had too many suitors to count. She was young and immensely beautiful, so she liked to spend her time flirting and giggling with the fawning men. When Mycroft would scold, she’d only count him jealous that there so few women at court that favored him, but he would vehemently deny such accusations. Mycroft was not interested in simpleminded women and the endless drabble of courtship. He was to be Emperor one day, a far higher calling than his sister’s inevitable marriage, and one filled with responsibility. Sheridan was only two years younger than Mycroft, but she practically lived in a different world, free from the burdens of ruling a land so dependent on its monarchy and so threatened with upheaval.

“You _cretin!_ ” Came a gasp from Mycroft’s left. He quickly turned to see a scandalized servant woman holding up her skirts as a black haired deviant scuttled on his hands and knees in pursuit of some small creature. Mycroft groaned inwardly as he jumped from his throne and quickly followed the troublemaker.

“Sherlock!” He called as the boy jumped to his feet and began sprinting into the corridor. Mycroft looked to see if anyone was around them, and then began to chase after him. The boy dove into the library, reaching out to catch something in his hands and whooping with success. Mycroft barreled into the room and fell forward to avoid trampling his brother.

Sherlock giggled manically when he saw Mycroft land with a huff onto the carpet.

“Oh _Lord,_ Mycroft you should have seen yourself! Like a bear tripping over a log!”

Mycroft shot up and defiantly reasserted his rumpled clothing, all while Sherlock rolled on the floor laughing and cradling his prize to his chest.

“Sherlock, what exactly were you chasing?” Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock’s giggling stopped abruptly as he brought his hands closer to his body. “Nothing.”

“Little brother, it is our kingdom’s _centennial_ celebration, the biggest festivity of the decade, at the heart of the Nodol. What are you thinking, chasing animals through the palace?”

A classic Sherlock pout began to form on his cherub face. “Dancing is _boring._ ”

Mycroft sighed. “I know you feel this way now, but in time you will come to appreciate the festivities our family gives for the royal court. Sheridan enjoys dancing.”

His nose crinkled. “Sheridan is a shameless flirt.”

Mycroft forced his lips to a stern line. “Yes, well she’s a girl, and that’s what girl’s her age do. Now Sherlock, hand over the poor creature.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft’s outstretched hand, but realizing escape was slim, surrendered the trembling toad. Mycroft grimaced as the slimy thing squirmed in his hand. Sherlock’s eyes had grown wide with nearly shed tears, and the Duke sighed, knowing he was being manipulated, but feeling somewhat compassionate.

He held out his hand and led Sherlock to the small pond in the gardens just outside the library. Sniffling, Sherlock kissed the head of the toad and said goodbye as Mycroft released it into the water. For a while both of them watched the ripples deform their moonlit reflection on the surface of the pond.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock began quietly, “mother said you are going to Paris tomorrow.”

The Grand Duke looked down at his little brother’s unruly curls, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Only for a little while.”

Sherlock’s shoulder’s slumped. “And I will be stuck here.”

Mycroft sighed and led the young boy to a bench nearby. “Is it so terrible here?”

“Yes! All those tutors trying to tell me what I ought to know and mother never letting me deduce things about the courtiers! Sheridan calls me a pest, and Father… well Father barely speaks to me Mycroft. I _loath_ it here. I haven’t any friends!”

Mycroft, always collected and self-controlled, felt his heart quake with his brother’s discontent. There was something there that spoke deep into the disquieting anger he had once felt toward his own life; growing up in the palace was to be groomed to rule, not to live as you choose. He had long ago chosen the responsibility given to him as Grand Duke, but his brother, just ten-years-old, so very bright and lost, had not yet come to terms with it all. He was lonely and sad, but seemed determined to appear brave and impenetrable like his father and brother. Mycroft knew, however, that Sherlock was the most sensitive of the entire family.

“I’ve gotten you a gift.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide and curious. “What sort of gift? Is it a sword?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and huffed. “Sherlock, you know that you won’t get a sword until you turn fourteen. Now, open this parcel.”

Sherlock’s pout that was beginning to form at the lack of sword disappeared as Mycroft removed a small package from his pocket. Sherlock scrunched his nose in concentration as he turned it around in his hands.

“It’s a…pocket watch.” He lifted his grey eyes to Mycroft for confirmation.

“Of a sort,” the older brother enigmatically replied.

Sherlock ripped open the paper wrapping and stared at the shiny metal present.

“It’s a magnification glass,” Mycroft explained as he pushed the button at the top of the chained devise. The surface panels popped open and revealed a concave piece of glass that enlarged the pads of his fingers beneath.

“Quite clever isn’t it? It’s to help you explore more properly when I’m away. When I’ve come back, you can share with me what you’ve learned.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and his mouth agape with wonder as he used the glass to observe a stain on his trouser leg. He looked up at Mycroft, beaming with joy.

“Mycroft, you’ve managed to give something rather good!”

The older brother sighed. “Yes, you’re welcome. Look, I’ve engraved it for you on the back. See?”

Sherlock closed it and turned it over to see the engraving. _For Paris._

The boy whooped in glee. “Do you mean it Mycroft? You shall take me to Paris with you next time?”

Mycroft couldn’t help the grin upon seeing his little brother’s excitement. “Yes, well when I’ve come back we can talk to mother and father about it.”

Sherlock leapt up and crowed to the moon. Mycroft shook his head and laughed. “Now, chain that to your trousers and keep it in your pocket. We’ll see what happens to you if I return and find it lost or broken.”

The ten-year-old hastily obeyed, grinning and rubbing his hands together. “Before long I will be having adventures in Paris, and I can deduce whomever I want and never have to go to another ball for as long as I live.”

“Sherlock – ” Mycroft began to protest, but suddenly a rustling was heard behind them, and a small servant boy emerged, looking sheepish.

“Sorry, your majesty Grand Duke sir, but her majesty the Empress is looking for you.”

Mycroft nodded to the blonde servant. “Very well. Come along, Sherlock, mother will want to see you too.”

Sherlock sighed and hung his head. “But _Mycroft_ – ”

“ _Come along._ ” The Grand Duke leveled a steady glance toward his petulant little brother.

“Fine!” he cried, throwing his hands dramatically into the air. “But I _shan’t_ dance!”

Mycroft tried not to grin as they headed toward the ballroom. Once they reached the corridor, a servant woman in white appeared, looking thoroughly vexed.

“John!” She cried sternly at the blonde boy, “Get back into the kitchen! What are you thinking being outside? Begging your pardon, your majesty, he’s lost his head.”

“But _mum,_ ” whined the boy, “Mr. Lestrade sent me to look for the Grand Duke!”

Mycroft waved a dismissing hand in the air, “No need to worry, he was not a bother.”

“Thank you, your majesty, apologies again, your majesty.” The woman murmured bowing. As soon as Mycroft passed by them, she grabbed the boy’s ear.

“Ow!” he whined, clawing at her hand. Before turning the corner, Sherlock glanced back at them curiously.

“Come along Sherlock!” Mycroft droned. He slumped and followed reluctantly into the ballroom.

The music was still swelling among the glittering dancers, but the Emperor and Empress were sitting on their thrones now, watching with austere expressions. Sheridan had also taken her place among them, but was speaking eagerly with her courtly ladies, glancing coquettishly at the Frenchman Mycroft had seen her dancing with earlier. He dragged Sherlock over to his mother.

“Darlings! There you are! Mycroft, I haven’t seen you all evening.”

The duke kissed his mother’s cheek and took his place next to her. “It’s been a successful evening, I believe.”

“Yes, a glorious festivity in honor of a glorious century.” The regal woman glanced down at her youngest son who had taken out his magnification glass to observe a small bug that was creeping under his mother’s throne.

“Sherlock! Good gracious child, get off your hands and knees! Come here and let me look at you.”

The boy petulantly stood and went to his mother. She tsked and rubbed a thumb over a patch of dirt that had somehow made its way to Sherlock’s nose.

“What am I going to do with you, pet? You’re always acting so disrespectfully. And now Mycroft is going away, and you will listen to no one.”

Sherlock wrenched his face away from her and gave the full-fledge pout Mycroft had observed the edges of all evening.

“You don’t have to do anything with me, I’m fine on my own!” He proclaimed, rather loudly. Sheridan and her ladies looked up at the whinging boy and frowned. Mycroft gave him a piercing look.

“Goodness sake, Sherlock, keep your voice down. Mother didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yes she did! She’s always trying to belittle me!” He stamped his foot.

“Silence!” Came a sudden command from the Emperor. All three of the royals ducked at the sound of his voice. Siger stood up from his throne and gripped the young boy’s wrist. The sour looking man, whom the Emperor had just been conversing with, looked disapprovingly on.

“I will not have a son of mine acting so unbecomingly.” He said, directing the boy to the seat beside’s Mycroft’s. “Now do as you’re told and be still.”

Sherlock was trembling now, his hands held in his lap, his head bowed. Mycroft knew he was desperately trying not to cry.

“Yes, sir.” He managed.

Appeased, Siger returned to his throne and began to speak again with his advisor. The Empress sighed. The dance ended with a flourish, sending the breathless participants into uproarious applause. Then the hall silenced as the Emperor rose to his feet and began to address the courtiers. Mycroft sat up straighter, listening intently to his father’s speech, highlighting the honorable history of their land. He glanced over at Sherlock who had slumped in his seat and was toying with his present, clicking it open and close. Mycroft was about to correct him when suddenly a loud _crack_ pervaded the room. He snapped his head toward the back of the hall, where a dark, sickly figure glided forward onto the dance floor.

The shocked courtiers backed away as the dark cloaked man made his way through the crowd toward the Emperor. Mycroft leapt to his feet, taking his sword in hand, instantly recognizing the pale face beneath the hood. It was Moriarty, the traitorous holy man that had been banished from court only a winter ago. With him was a tall, brooding knight in dark metal, sending murderous looks to anyone who so much as took a step toward Moriarty. The traitor swung a black lamp in front of him, swirling white smoke into the air, as though offering incense to God. Mycroft tightened his grip on his sword.

“How dare you come here, sir? You have been banished!” Bellowed the Emperor, flanked now by two guards, raising their swords.

“But I am your confidante, your majesty!” Came the sickening reply from the smirking devil.

“Confidante!” Siger cried out indignantly, “Ha! You have proved a traitor to this land!”

Moriarty scowled and raised his lamp. “You think you can banish _me?_ ” He screeched.

The Emperor stepped back, alarmed by the rage that ignited the small man’s face.

“No, no, no,” Moriarty said quietly, “I, banish _you._ With a curse.”

He whirled around, shrouding himself in smoke. “You and your family will die within a fortnight!”

The crowd gasped and terrified whispers erupted among the courtiers. Mycroft looked to his mother, pale in her throne, a hand to her throat. Sheridan had risen to her feet, visibly shaking with terror, clutching hands with one of her ladies. She sent a worried look to her older brother. He remembered. The night she had come to him, crying about the holy man that they had once trusted, who had appeared in her bedchamber and threatened her life. He remembered her shameful face, her wide eyes, her shaking voice as she had whispered, “he said he would murder us all if I refused him.”

And now, returned was the madman, grinning wickedly at all the trembling courtiers. The guards began to advance on him, but the brooding knight wielded his massive sword, challenging the guards as they attempted to apprehend the traitor. Moriarty cackled with glee.

“It is no _use_!” He yelled out. “I will not _rest_ until I see the Holmes’ line destroyed!” Suddenly he raised his hand and with a deafening roar, the large chandelier hanging from the middle of the rafters fell to the dance floor, crushing a group of young women and shattering in a blast of glass and fire.

People rushed to the exit doors, screaming hysterically. Mycroft tried to jostle through the hysterical crowd, seeking to defend his father. He pushed past women in tears and men slick with blood, desperation to enact revenge and apprehend the fiend overwhelming his senses. The smoke from the fire began to choke him as he hurtled blindly through the crowd. He arrived at the fire that had erupted around the destroyed chandelier, but only saw the terribly charred bodies of those unlucky enough to be trapped beneath it. He turned and sprinted to the north wall, his eyes beginning to sting from the smoke. There, Mycroft found his father, leaning against a window, his face rumpled in agony as he held a hand to his side. Mycroft saw the blood seeping forth from the wound and froze in shock. Three guards had reached them; they tried to lift the Emperor but the man let out such a wail of pain that they set him down again, beginning to break the window to allow some air not tainted by the suffocating smoke.

The Emperor lifted his eyes to his son and lifted a trembling finger beyond the young duke’s shoulder. Mycroft jerked around, seeing the flicker of a dark cape and a knight’s armor gleaming in the firelight as they disappeared through the gardens. He leapt after them, weaving in and out of the fleeing men and women. He reached the courtyard, but within the jumble of terrified people and confused servants, he couldn’t spot the dark coat again. With a frustrated yell, he clambered down the steps into the garden, racing to find any trace of the murderers, but there was no sign. They had gotten away.

Mycroft leaned his hand against a tree, trying to calm his breathing, frustration and anger pumping in his veins. This Moriarty was as good as a dead man. He felt determination swell in him. Death to the traitor of his father, of Nodol! Suddenly a cry came from behind him – Sheridan calling his name. He emerged from the garden as she ran down the courtyard stairs tears streaming down her face.

“Oh Mycroft! Come quickly! Father is dying.” She choked out.

The young duke followed her around the smoking hell of their ruined ballroom; the windows were cracking under the swell of the heat, and Mycroft could hear roar of the flames. Sheridan led them to the servant’s courtyard steps, where the guards had managed to carry his father. The Emperor was pale and covered in his own blood, slumped against the Empress as she cradled his head with trembling arms. She was weeping bitterly, grief and shock overwhelming her features. The woman wailed when she saw Mycroft approaching, and held out a bloodstained hand to him.

And the young duke observed his elegant mother cry out to him in agony, holding close to her bosom the once Great Emperor of Nodol, brought low by one man’s evil cunning. Mycroft reached out and clasped her hand, numb to his feet, incapable of looking anywhere other his father’s dying, cold eyes. The man gasped for breath, attempting to speak but overcome with pain. Mycroft fell to his knees and bowed his head to his father, feeling his own eyes prick with sorrow.

“Oh father, our Emperor, you cannot leave us,” he begged.

“Mycroft –” Siger managed. He clawed at his sword and attempted to pull it free from his side. Shaking, the young duke reached to help unsheathe the sacred weapon. It shone blue and red; moonlight arrested by firelight – peace tainted in blood. Rubies that decorated the handle glittered up at their new master. Mycroft lifted blurry eyes to the dying Emperor.

“My son –” came the strangled voice. Then silence.

The Empress wailed, wrenching the body up and rocking it in her arms. A guard knelt down, his face full of devastation, and steadied a fainting Sheridan. Mycroft stared at the dead man’s still open eyes, clutching the sword of Siger the Great, Emperor of Nodol, afraid to look away.

Then, a quiet voice beside him. “Father?”

Mycroft tore his eyes away from the dead man to see the black curls that had materialized from the darkness, quivering with confusion and fear.

“Gone,” whispered Mycroft, relieving his grip on the sword to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder.

His mother’s weeping eyes stole up from her dead husband’s body at the sound from Mycroft.

“Long live Emperor Mycroft Holmes,” she whispered.

Sherlock shivered beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! More to come very soon.  
> Feedback is welcome.


	2. The Palace Siege

_I will not rest until I see the Holmes’ line destroyed!_  

The madman's words would not leave Mycroft. It had been twelve days since his father's death, and while the others grieved their late Emperor, Mycroft carried on in his duties to the kingdom. The rebellion in the South, mere whispers of discontent a week ago, had erupted into a chaos that consumed nearly half the land. The desperate impoverished man, once quiet in his grumbles, had been taught a new language of revolution. Coerced into a frenzy by zealous idealists, their lives were no longer tolerant. Action bread freedom, they chanted. In the darkness beyond the flickers of their torches was the black knight, a brooding, violent killer, who answered to one man - Moriarty.

_You and your family will die within a fortnight!_

The traitor had called upon some unholy power to curse them. The people worshipped his power, proclaiming him a prophet sent from God to guide them toward freedom. Moriarty spread his lies and black acts, twisting the minds of the citizens of Nodol. In a matter of a few days he had estranged the monarchy from its once loyal people. Mycroft, the new Emperor, watched as his kingdom burned. And all the while, the vision of his father's cold eyes, tortured him, reminding him of his youth, his incompetence.  

 _Nothing could have prepared me for this._  

A tap at the study door. "Your Majesty, Sir Dimmock to see you."

The head of the royal guard entered swiftly, his eyes dark with lack of sleep and worry. Behind him trailed a young officer, nervously glancing about Mycroft's study. They both bowed in greeting.

"We must evacuate the palace, sir. There is nothing we can do to stop them. By dawn, they will have stormed the grounds."

Mycroft stared sharply at Dimmock. "I will not run from this mythical power Moriarty so claims. They will not breach the castle walls."

"You saw the chandelier fall, Your Majesty."

A burst of fire. Bleeding courtiers. His father's cold eyes. White smoke swirling about a madman's grin.

The young Emperor gripped his sword. "He is mere man. Evil and possessed by his lust for power. We will not yield."

The young guard stepped forward. He was barely a few years older than Mycroft, his chestnut hair falling forward into his eyes as he bowed his head respectfully. "Please Your Majesty, we are highly outnumbered. Too many men were injured at the ball."

Sir Dimmock gave the young man a firm look, and he ducked his head.

"Mr. Lestrade, Your Highness, though inexperienced in battle, is correct. I lost my best men that night. The servants quiver in the hallways; many have already fled! We do not have a hope of maintaining the palace."

Mycroft's lips grew thin as he watched fear and uncertainty burn in the eyes of his royal guard. It was hopeless then. Moriarty had already won.

"Do not lose your courage." The men straightened as their young Emperor approached them. "We must protect those in the palace. I will find a way to evacuate them."

Lestrade stepped forward tentatively. "If it pleases Your Majesty, I have an idea on how we might do so."

 

\- - -

 

 "Mother," Mycroft called into the darkness. A single candle lighted her chamber. Three women huddled around it whispering to one another. Their pale faces snapped up at his summons, the ghoulish light casting shadows into their worried eyes. 

"Is it time?" Came his mother's regal voice.

They stood, two ladies' maids supporting their trembling mistress. In only a matter of weeks, Mycroft's striking mother had become an old woman, her eyes worn with grief, her hair streaked with grey, unstable on her feet. She had hardly left her chambers since the day of the ball, lying in fitful unrest. Besides her two maids and Mycroft, she spoke to no one.

Silently they swept into the hall, moonlight slanting through the floor-length windows and guiding their way. As they grew closer to the carriages, rustling groups of servants and courtiers joined them, faces ashen with fear and strained with determination to escape. Mycroft’s heart, burning for revenge, longing to stand firm, to protect, protested against the oppressive silence; so quiet was the palace, as though death had already overtaken it's corridors.

Suddenly, piercing through the darkness was a single cry of terror. "They are here!"

At once, the hall was full of panic, some choosing to streak toward the carriages, while other's turned to flee in a different direction. Mycroft unsheathed his sword and grasped his mother's arm, leading them toward the carriages. At the end of the hall, a flickering threat of firelight grew bright; the shrieking grew louder. Dimmock came pounding down the corridor, his eyes wide, breathing heavily.

"My Lord, My Lady, the carriages have been overtaken! They entered over the South wall; the guards have been slain."

The Empress' knees gave way, and the ladies reached to catch her. Mycroft felt his heart sink.

"And those attempting to escape?"

Dimmock's eyes quivered in the moonlight. "Burnt with the carriages, Your Majesty."

"Sheridan!" The Empress cried out, tears falling down her face.

Mycroft took a quick breath. "We will have to run to catch the train. Dimmock, direct those who have survived toward the northern exit, toward the tracks. Take my mother."

The guard nodded vigorously, gathering the faint Empress in his arms and turning to sprint down the corridor with her ladies.

"Wait!" Called the fair lady, "Mycroft, you must find Sherlock. His group may not have yet reached the carriages."

The Emperor's instincts to defend his palace warred with his desire to follow his mother's request. He looked in her soft blue eyes, and gave way. Nodding briskly, he raced to the nursery where Sherlock and his nannies had been instructed to hide until it was time to leave. The wing was full of terrified servants, and Mycroft quickly instructed them to head toward the north exit. He inquired after his brother, but none had seen the boy or his nannies since the initial race to the carriages.

His heart grew heavy as he continued to search the rooms, only to find them empty. The corridor has emptied, and the once distant sounds of the mob grew closer with each search. When Mycroft finally determined the task to be hopeless, he began his trek through the palace, ordering lost servants and terrified courtiers toward the northern exits and searching fiercely through the clamor for Sherlock. An explosion of glass erupted from the western hall and Mycroft unsheathed his sword once more, making ready a defense for his fleeing servants. Then, out of an empty chamber bounded the missing little boy, his eyes wide with fear.

"Mycroft!" He cried clutching had his brother's coat. The Emperor ached with relief.

"Sherlock! Where are your nannies? Why are you alone?"

The boy's lips quivered. "I've lost it Mycroft! I can't find it anywhere!"

"What have you lost Sherlock?"

"My magnification glass! I left it here last night when I was exploring!"

"For goodness sakes!" Mycroft took his brother in hand and began to run toward their escape, but Sherlock wrenched free and dove into the next room.

"Sherlock!" The Emperor chased after him.

"I know its here! I can't leave without it!"

Another crash and resulting cheering. They were close. "Sherlock we must leave at once!"

The little boy emerged from beneath a bed, clutching his gift with triumph. "I've got it!"

A smash of pottery just a few doors away. Mycroft slammed and locked the door behind him, his eyes darting for an escape. They were too high off the ground to jump from the windows. Their only hope was if the mob passed by the room. He picked up his shocked little brother and hid him in the shadows next to the fireplace, gesturing for him to be silent. The laughter and cheers echoed eerily just outside the door.

A muffled voice rang out, "Check all the rooms! We've yet to find the Emperor and the little brat."

Sherlock stilled beside him, his grey eyes filled with quiet panic. Mycroft gripped his sword. The door handle rattled.

"Oi! This one's locked!"

_Mycroft, you fool._

"Break it down!"

A scuffle and a slam of feet attempting to break the lock. 

 _Boom._  Mycroft readied his sword.

 _Boom._  Sherlock closed his eyes.

 _Boom._  The door creaked with abuse. 

Suddenly, the wall beside Sherlock burst open and a blonde-haired boy emerged, his eyes full of determination.

"This way!" He whispered gesturing into the darkness beyond the camouflaged door, "Through the servants quarters!"

Quickly Sherlock sprinted after the boy, followed by Mycroft who sealed the wall behind them. Distantly he heard the chamber's door slam open. They ran down the darkened stairs after the servant boy, and emerged into the kitchen. Mycroft saw how it had been ravaged, tables upturned and supplies scattered across the floor. Without another glance, they escaped to the western courtyard. The servant lifted a finger to his lips, pointing to where a small fire was blazing just a little ways away, two dark figures silhouetted against its glow. Edging quietly toward the northern walls, they stuck to the shadows. They reached the far gate, and Mycroft hoisted his brother and the blonde boy over it before climbing after them. As he leapt down the gate groaned loudly, and the two silhouetted figures turned toward the noise.

"After them!" hissed the short man, and Mycroft shivered with recognition.  _Moriarty._

The three escapees ran through the gardens, reaching the bridge that ran over the palace moat. Suddenly, the servant boy fell, and Sherlock stopped to help him back to his feet.

"Alright?" He asked.

The boy winced as his foot made contact with the ground. He let out a frustrated growl, but carried on across the bridge, huffing through his teeth in pain. Mycroft despaired over their impaired speed, and nearly grabbed Sherlock to run and leave the servant. But it was too late – just as they reached the end of the bridge, a glistening knight overtook them.

"You can't run now, Your Majesty," came a sickening voice. Mycroft turned to face his foe, sword aloft. He steered the boys behind him to the edge of the bridge, and brandished his weapon to the traitor and his knight. Moriarty gave a glistening smile.

"Was that your father's sword? How sweet. The little Emperor, so brave, so…stupid."

A crash and Mycroft watched as the western wing of the palace erupted in flames. Moriarty gave an impressed whistle.

"Goodness, angry mobs certainly do have their talents. Get enough people angry and  _boom!_ "

Mycroft gritted his teeth.

"Oh, Mycroft Holmes, the icy prince, did you really think you'd escape? My power is far greater than your father could have  _ever_ imagined! He failed to ally with me, and he died. As will you, along with the rest of your family."

Sherlock was gripping tight to Mycroft's coat. 

"Ah yes," Moriarty looked round to the little boy's eyes, "you too, little duke. Just like the others who tried to flee through the northern gates. Honestly, Mycroft..." the madman turned his eyes back to the Emperor, "do you think me a fool?"

The knight chuckled darkly. Moriarty sent an appreciative glance back at him. And all at once, Mycroft was flying backwards off of the bridge into the dark waters of the lake. The water was icy cold; his lungs protested as he fought his way to the surface. Sputtering he reached the night air, dragging his sword clumsily through the water and trying to find his brother among the ripples. He just made out two small figures reaching the shore when another splash pulsed next to him. Mycroft raised his shivering arm, and felt a dull clang as the figure who had jumped after him surfaced. 

Moriarty screeched and raised a hand to his gushing face. Terrified, Mycroft paddled to the shore, lugging his weapon. Once he could stand he whirled around to see the drowning madman, sputtering and screeching up at the dark knight above the bridge. The servant was attempting to lose his armor in order to rescue his master. Mycroft turned and sprinted toward the spot he'd seen the servant and Sherlock earlier. When he reached the surrounding trees, he found a shivering Sherlock clutching his gift in his hands.

"Where's the boy?" Mycroft asked, sheathing his sword.

"Gone to look for his mother. She had run north..." The boy's eyes traveled to the burning palace.

"Come on," Mycroft grabbed his brother's arm and directed him down the forest path, "there may be time yet."

They ran through the trees, seeking the western road, trying to move quietly lest there be lurking rebels. With no sign of trouble, they made it to the large dirt road and turned north, remaining in the shadows. Sherlock pointed to the train tracks that flowed in and out of the forest. Mycroft nodded and they followed the tracks to the station, where a huffing locomotive stood among a throng of wild people. Servants attempted to board, and angry rebels held them back. A few called for the royals they were sure were aboard. 

"Give us the Emperor!" they called, hurtling themselves toward the frightened train workers.

"We must be off! Clear the tracks!" called the conductor again and again.

"You cannot help them escape! They are called to justice! You betray your fellow man!" More protestors screeched.

Finally the conductor lurched the train forward, causing many people to scatter from the tracks. One woman wailed as she was pushed from one of the cars. It chugged slowly toward where Mycroft and Sherlock hid among the trees. As it began to pass, Mycroft pulled at Sherlock's wrist and chased after it. On the caboose stood two courtiers, huddling together, wide-eyed. They saw the two figures sprinting after the train, and reached out their hands, urging them forward.

Mycroft began to run faster, but Sherlock was stumbling beside him, his breathe coming fast and shallow.

"Come on, we're nearly there!" He yelled.

With a few bounding steps he overtook the car and grasped the on courtier’s hand. Mycroft squeezed around Sherlock's fingers as he was pulled aboard, but the boy fell from his grasp. He held out his hand as the train continued to speed away.

"Sherlock!" He screamed, willing his brother forward. But Sherlock's eyes had grown wide in fear, his steps unsure, slowing and falling behind. One of the courtiers grasped Mycroft and tried to pull him backward into the car. He struggled forward reaching out again, but the boy tripped and fell. His head of dark curls fell backwards and smacked against the rails. Sherlock lay still. Before the train bent around the corner, Mycroft saw a small glimmering metal object lying just next to his brother's outstretched hand.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft wrenched himself from the courtier’s hands, attempting to leap from the train, but another man grasped his shoulders.

"You must hide in the car, Your Majesty!" Came a gruff voice in his ear, but Mycroft could not respond. He stood frozen staring out into the trees, urging the young duke to appear. Finally he was eased away from the railing and into the car. He was shoved into a seat, given a blanket, questioned relentlessly. But the Emperor said nothing. The blurring dark trees were broken up by the oncoming dawn.

 

\- - -

 

_To His Highness, The True Emperor of Nodol,_

_It is lucky I have managed to get this letter to you, as the rebels are demanding exit visas of anyone attempting to leave the capitol. It seems that only this messenger and I remain loyal to Your Majesty– though some may still be in hiding. The palace has been taken by the rebels, but without their master, seem lost as to proceed with their 'grand freedom’. There has been no sign of Moriarty or the black knight, though reports of Moriarty's death have come to me. Many believe he was drowned in the lake, and his terrible servant, fled._  
 _With great sadness I can report the death of Their Majesties the Empress and Duchess. Both were found slain in the palace alongside their ladies. Of the young duke, there has been no sign. In this hour of turmoil and confusion, I wish you to know that should you call for us, we will answer._  
 _Your humble servant,  
Sir Dimmock._

_  
_Mycroft let the short correspondence fall to the desk. His head fell to his hands. For just a moment, the young Emperor let himself weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh sad Mycroft, lost Sherlock, and a country in chaos. Now begins the real story, eh? :)


End file.
